It’s been weeks since the breakup, and I haven’t seen a single shadow of her, not even the slightest memory of her comes to mind. She made things clear the last time we talked: she wanted to see other men, and I was happy with her, but I didn’t show any interest in saving the relationship. She said that was the problem; I didn’t show any concern for “us.” I just went through the emotion, and she was certain that our relationship was going nowhere. She ended the relationship that really didn’t faze me. I left the next morning after, of course, sleeping on the couch and waiting until she went to work; we haven’t met since.

It was a beautiful sunny morning; Monday I believe it was. I was feeling sober about the ending of a long two-year relationship, and I didn’t think much of her during my every day course. I walked to my favorite coffee shop, that’s about two blocks from my new apartment that I pay too much for. The warm air bathed my skin and kept me comfortable, and the wind blew against me enough so that I wouldn’t perspire. I had my comfortable clothes on: messy hair under a baseball hat that read New York Yankees, a baseball-tee that had blue sleeves and a white front, black jeans, and my favorite black Nikes.

I was a bachelor and I could get any girl I wanted, Why would I need her anyways? I began to think about her; the first time in two weeks: her brunette hair that had deep long curls, her green eyes that had flex of grey whenever the sun hit them directly, and her smile that she was self-conscious about; an unnoticeable over-lap on her front tooth. It had only been two-weeks since the break-up and already I thought; ‘I’m fucked!’ I imagined myself to be that guy who comes crawling back, soaked in regret and apologizes.

I continued my walk to the coffee shop and I had already made it a block, so for the next block I swore to myself that I wouldn’t think about her. I was going to be free, and she couldn’t change that, but her face started to flash in my thoughts, and I was determined to throw her out. All I have to do is make it to the coffee shop; my sanctuary, and nothing but coffee and a good book could approach me.

I made it to the coffee shop and my worries were gone. I ordered the largest coffee; I was prepared to stay awhile. I sat back in the leather easy chair and waited for my coffee to be ready. She was gone out of my thoughts; I hadn’t thought about a single hair on her head, not even a single smile. I was in my sanctuary, and I was untouchable. Not long after my order was placed, I heard my name called. My coffee was ready for me, and so I picked the coffee up and went back to my leather chair.

I had brought one book to the coffee shop: The Moon Is Down, John Steinbeck. I was by myself, if anyone was in that coffee shop, I didn’t notice. My mind was clear and steady on the book. The smell of roasting coffee beans steamed in the air. The sounds that echoed from customers and employees were dim to nothing. I read quickly and so I mistakenly read the same line twice. It threw me off my meditation, and there she was again: her chameleon eyes, and her deeply curled hair. Mocking me. I turned back to my book and tried to focus on whatever I could. I was failing to stay away from her and so I just gave up.

I sat in the leather chair just staring at the dark wooded coffee table in front of me. My blank face was turning pale, and my coffee had no taste. I felt like I was I thinking without words. I twirled the emotions inside my head to create something to think, something to persuade me to stop, but it was too late. I had lost something great. I let her go without a fight. I ignored every conversation, every fight, every word she said. I gave her an autopilot relationship that required a text per day, a date each weekend, and a good fuck when she wanted, or maybe whenever I wanted.

I got out of my relaxing leather chair and went to the door, my hand nervously shaking while gripping the handle. I was going back to her; I was that guy who comes back soaked in apologizes. Maybe that’s what she wanted, was the sympathy I never gave her. I left the coffee shop with all the courage I had left. I walked back towards my apartments, The Good Living Apartments, what a shitty name.

Her apartment wasn’t far from my new place; my name was still on the least when I left. I by passed my apartments, and about two blocks down in plain sight was my old place. I crossed two lights that had to be green; the world wasn’t being patient with me. It wanted me to go now. I was in the front her apartment; I knew she was there because her car was parked under the dying tree. I walked to the second floor and stood at her door, 12C. I knocked softly; she didn’t answer.

I opened the door softly; pretending it was already open. The living room TV was on; volume too loud. The kitchen light was off as I passed by, and our old bedroom door was cracked open. I nudged the door open and there she was, taking a nap with my old baseball-tee, the sleeves were red and the front was white, she wasn’t alone, my best friend was holding her from behind, his head slightly visible, laying on her shoulder.

I was too late.

Property: Micah Herman

2 thoughts on “Unconscious

  1. This is beautiful! I love your pacing and your vivid descriptions (I tend to have a lot of trouble with those). It made me catch my breath at the end.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much! That really means a lot. I will be posting many of these Flash Fiction stories. I’ll be posting them every weekend. If you know others who like short dramatic stories let them know where they can find it: @TheWeekendStory.
      Thanks again!

      Liked by 1 person

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